Pure and Simple Truth
by SHERlocked221C
Summary: In response to a tumblr prompt r.e. the original scene between Sherlock and Molly written for The Final Problem. "He paused the video. Sherlock froze, both arms raised, his features contorted by his wrath and pain. Mycroft sat back in his chair, studying the scene, thoughtful. There was only one possible conclusion to be drawn, only one. His little brother truly loved Molly Hooper.
1. Chapter 1

Mycroft Holmes was not given to sentiment. For years he had cultivated a personality of ice, a reputation for being an uncaring man of stone. Nothing fazed him, until…until Eurus, he admitted to himself. He sat alone in his quiet office, laptop open—on its screen, footage from the security cameras of Sherrinford. He had requested that it be downloaded to his computer then wiped from the facility's memory banks. Now, he faced the unpleasant task of reviewing it. As the events of the previous day unfolded before him, he came to a few inescapable conclusions. Try as he might, he cared. Despite the image he presented, despite what he had always told Sherlock, he always cared, about his family, and by extension, those they cared about. In his brother's case, that meant John Watson and his daughter, Mrs. Hudson, Greg Lestrade, and—Molly Hooper. He had never seen it coming, but there it was, on the screen and forever burned into his memory—Sherlock, physically destroying a coffin with his bare hands.

Mycroft replayed the sequence. He saw himself relax in relief as Dr. Hooper admitted she loved Sherlock and Eurus' countdown ended with two seconds to spare. Moments later, Sherlock carefully placed the lid atop the coffin, and then gently, almost reverently, caressed the wood and the plaque bearing the words, "I LOVE YOU". However, his brother's next move had been explosive and he and John had watched helplessly as Sherlock, fueled by an internal rage Mycroft had rarely witnessed, drove a powerful fist through the lid and proceeded to rip the coffin apart, screaming in his fury, splintered wood flying in all directions.

He paused the video. Sherlock froze, both arms raised, his features contorted by his wrath and pain. Mycroft sat back in his chair, studying the scene, thoughtful. There was only one possible conclusion to be drawn, only one. His little brother truly loved Molly Hooper. Mycroft reached out, pressed a button.

"Sir?" Anthea's voice came from the intercom.

"Get me a car."

Thirty minutes later, Mycroft found himself standing on Molly Hooper's doorstep. He rang the doorbell, for once uncertain what he was going to say. The door slowly opened to reveal the pathologist. Her eyes were red-rimmed and he deduced from the dark circles beneath them that she had not slept the previous night.

"Mycroft," she said quietly. "What're you doing here?" As he hesitated, she continued, "It's Sherlock, isn't it? What's happened?"

"May I come in, Doctor Hooper?"

She stepped aside to allow his entrance, closed the door quietly, and then led him into her flat.

Once inside, she spun to face him. "I've asked once already, Mycroft—what's going on? Is Sherlock all right?"

"Sherlock," he said, "is fine."

Molly sighed, and her mouth set in a hard, angry line. "Then please say what you have to say. I'm tired, and yesterday was a really, really bad day for reasons that I don't want to get into right now. It doesn't take a Holmes to figure out that I haven't had much sleep."

"That's why I'm here," he replied. "I know you were already having a bad day yesterday, and then Sherlock called you."

She took an involuntary step backward. "What?" she asked, puzzled. "How…did you know I talked with Sherlock?"

"I was there."

Her eyes narrowed dangerously. "What? He said it was for a case. Who…who else was there?"

Mycroft held up a hand. "Please, Doctor. I have a great deal to tell you, all of it important, and I ask that you listen carefully and with an open mind. It is not my intention to cause you pain. Quite the contrary, in fact. It is my hope that after you hear me out, you will understand."

Molly motioned for him to take a seat on the sofa, and she seated herself across from him, embarrassment and anger fighting for control.

He sat. Leaning his umbrella against the end table, he began, "You need to know that what I am about to impart is not an easy thing for me to say, nor will it be easy for you to hear, but you must. There are things that you don't know about my family. Sherlock himself was completely unaware until only a few days ago." He paused, and she nodded for him to continue.

"Sherlock and I," he said, "have a sister. Her name is Eurus, and she is intellectually without equal. However…though she is brilliant, she is also…damaged. Since childhood, she has demonstrated persistent and deadly psychopathic behavior."

Molly sat, unmoving, eyes intent upon his as he reluctantly told the tale.

"Eurus is held in a secure location which was recently compromised. Regrettably, she was able to gain control of the facility. When Sherlock, Doctor Watson and I traveled there to investigate, we were detained by Eurus, and she…subjected us to a series of terrors in the form of psychological experiments."

Seeing that she was still listening, he pressed on. "One of the most difficult dealt directly with you."

Her right eyebrow arched in disbelief.

"We were led into a chamber which contained a single coffin," he said. "Sherlock deduced that the coffin was meant for you. There was a plaque on the lid engraved with the words, I LOVE YOU. Eurus informed Sherlock that she had planted a bomb here, in this flat, and that if he could not convince you to say 'I love you' within three minutes, she would detonate the device, resulting in your death."

She gasped, eyes widening.

Good. I still have her attention, he thought. "Though Eurus later revealed that there was never an explosive device here, at the time we didn't know. Sherlock was becoming increasingly desperate. He wasn't allowed to intimate to you that anything was amiss."

"So," she said, "it was all an act, then."

"Wait," Mycroft cautioned. "I'm not finished, there's more…and this may be the most important thing of all. Yes, Sherlock said what he said while under duress, that's true. But what he did afterward was more telling."

He reached into his laptop case, withdrawing the computer. Setting it before her, he activated the video. Sherlock, utterly berserk, smashed the coffin to bits. He retrieved the laptop.

Mycroft gazed across the room at Molly. "Well, Doctor, what deductions can you make from that?" he asked.

Molly's brain was spinning. After the events of yesterday, she didn't know what to think anymore. It was all a bit too much to take in. She had been blindsided by Sherlock's call, humiliated beyond belief, but determined to maintain control in that conversation. So she had made him say it first. After she had finally complied with his request, whispering "I love you" into the phone, she had been cut off, and he hadn't called back, nor had he answered her when she finally decided to call him herself.

And now here was his brother, sitting here, with these revelations.

"Why," she asked, "are you telling me this? Why isn't Sherlock here to explain this himself?"

"He's with our parents right now. They're on their way to my office for a…discussion. Knowing him as I do, I suspect he will be here immediately after." He paused, then added, "Please, Doctor Hooper, don't be too hard on him. He said what he did yesterday for two reasons. One: to save your life, and two: because he loves you."

I know that's a pretty short chapter, but it's a work in progress. It may take time to post future chapters given my busy schedule, but please bear with me, I'll try to make it worth the wait!


	2. Chapter 2

As the door closed behind Mycroft, Molly remained in her chair, thinking, mind still a whirlwind of images, sounds, emotions. She replayed the phone call in her head, armed with this new knowledge.

"I can't say that to you."

"Of course you can, why can't you?"

"You know why."

"No, I don't know why."

"Of course you do."

"Please, just say it."

"I can't. Not to you."

"Why?"

"Because…because it's true. It's true, Sherlock. It's always been true." She was nearly unable to speak, but she managed to grind out those words.

"Well, if it's true, just say it anyway."

She laughed humorlessly. "You bastard."

"Say it anyway."

By God, she wasn't about to be manipulated. Time to turn the tables. "You say it. Go on, you say it first."

"What?"

"Say it. Say it like you mean it."

There was a pause, and then his voice. "I…I love you." And then a second time. "I love you."

She stared at the phone, not knowing what to think. His second statement almost sounded…sincere, almost…amazed, as if he had made a discovery.

"Molly? Please." And he was desperate now.

She pulled the phone close to her lips, finally whispering, "I love you."

After that, the line had gone dead, and she was left standing in her kitchen, trembling with a mixture of fear, mortification, outrage, shame. This wasn't the way she had ever imagined this occurring.

But now, what was she supposed to feel? She turned over a memory stick in her palm. Mycroft had given it to her prior to his departure, with instructions not to reveal to anyone, including Sherlock, that she had viewed the file within. Pulling her laptop toward her on the coffee table, she inserted the stick and opened the one file it contained.

There was the video feed once more. Sherlock, John and Mycroft all slumped in relief, and Sherlock, gun in his hand, covered his eyes.

"Sherlock, however hard that was…."

"Eurus, I won. I won. Come on, play fair. The girl on the plane, I need to talk to her. I won. I saved Molly Hooper."

"Saved her? From what? Oh, do be sensible. There were no explosives in her little house. Why would I be so clumsy? You didn't win. You lost. Look what you did to her. Look what you did to yourself. All those complicated little emotions, I lost count. Emotional context, Sherlock. It destroys you, every time. Now, please pull yourself together, I need you at peak efficiency. The next one isn't going to be so easy. In your own time."

She watched as Sherlock walked away from the others and lowered the coffin lid into place.

"Sherlock," John began.

"No," said Sherlock, and there he was again, demolishing the coffin with nothing more than his own fists, howling in primal rage, unstoppable in his destruction until he was left sitting on the floor amidst the debris, a haunted look on his face. She had never—never—seen him display so much emotion other than when he was high. And what was the explanation for this? Did he really…? Could he?

She stopped the video and removed the memory stick, placing it in her pocket. She had never wanted this. Declarations of love shouldn't be forced. They had to be real, they had to be true, pure and simple. Mycroft had said that Sherlock honestly loved her, and if there was anyone who would know, it would have to be Sherlock's own brother. He also seemed to think that Sherlock would be coming to see her later.

Molly rose and wandered into her kitchen. The orange she had been slicing yesterday was still sitting on the counter beside an unfinished cup of tea. After yesterday's drama, she had retreated to her bedroom, unable to think, unable to function. She sighed, sweeping the now-dried out orange into the rubbish bin and dumping the cold tea down the sink.

After a quick freshening-up, she returned to the sitting room to wait. She was rewarded by a buzz of her doorbell. Heart pounding, she stepped determinedly to the door. Expecting Sherlock, she didn't bother to check the peephole. Her last conscious thought after opening the door was that the figure standing there wasn't the Detective.

Sherlock Holmes sat in the back of a cab, nervously drumming his fingers on the armrest. After the painful (mostly for Mycroft) meeting with his parents, he wanted nothing more than to see Molly Hooper. She deserved an apology, after yesterday's unexpected and difficult phone call. He had been so desperate to save her, was so afraid that by any thoughtless statement, he might lose her. And she had finally said it. Closing his eyes, he listened as her tearful voice echoed through the corridors of his mind palace. "Because…because it's true. It's true, Sherlock. It's always been true." Somewhere, deep inside the emotional side of him he had tried so hard to suppress, he had always known.

He studied his hands. The knuckles were abraded and bruised. He had winced late last night as he sat on John's toilet while the Doctor applied alcohol and removed several large splinters from his fingers.

John had given him a knowing look. "Sherlock," he said, "When are you going to see her? I know you're dying to."

"Is it that obvious?" he had asked.

"The evidence is right in front of me," John replied. "Doesn't take a consulting detective to figure it out. You love Molly Hooper."

Sherlock looked up at his friend, worried. "What do I do, John?" he said, voice raspy with emotion. "I don't know what to say."

"Be yourself."

"Myself?" he scoffed. "That usually gets me in trouble."

John smiled gently and placed a firm hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "Sherlock, not long ago, I stood in your flat, a broken man. And do you know what you did? You got up out of that squishy armchair of yours and held me while I let it all go."

Sherlock took a deep breath as John continued. "The Sherlock Holmes I met when I returned from Afghanistan would never have done that. You're a different man, a truly good man. And you will be an even better one, now that you are able to remember what you once were."

"I hurt her yesterday, John."

"I know. But the very fact that you realize you hurt her and feel sorry for it…well. It's…good."

He looked up at his friend. "I'm scared," he admitted.

"We all are, Sherlock," said John. "As you said, we may all just be human."

The cab slowed and he opened his eyes. They were outside Molly's flat. He exited the cab and paid the driver. Standing at her door, he took a few calming breaths, then pressed the buzzer with one of his sore fingers. There was no answer. He rang the bell again. No response. That was bloody odd. She had worked the last weekend and was supposed to have this week off.

Pulling out his mobile phone, he called her.

"Hi, this is Molly, at the dead centre of town. Leave a message."

"Molly, it's me. I wanted to talk to you. It's important. I know you may even want to give me a good slap right now…I just wanted to say…look, please just call me back, all right?"

God, I sound like a teenager, he thought.

Still standing on her front steps, he rang Bart's lab. The pathologist on duty said that Molly was indeed off this week, should be home. He turned, reached into his pocket for her spare key. He had kept it ever since the Fall. Knowing she might not forgive him for barging in where he wasn't welcome, he inserted the key into the lock and quietly opened the door. All was silent in the flat. He stepped inside and closed the door behind him. Sherlock peered around the corner into the sitting room. The telly was on. Molly's handbag was lying on the desk, makeup, phone, and her keys spilling out.

"Molly?" he asked cautiously.

No answer.

He heard a noise and spun, but it was only Toby, Molly's cat, speeding from the bedroom into the kitchen.

She wasn't in the kitchen, and moving faster now, he investigated the other rooms without success. He stood again in the sitting room, turning slowly, looking for clues. Her coat was still on the rack in the hall. She wouldn't have gone out without her handbag. A worrying feeling began to gnaw at him, the feeling that Molly was in some sort of danger. He pulled out his mobile.

"John, it's Sherlock. I'm at Molly's—she's not here, but something's wrong. I need to talk to Mycroft, but I may need your help later."

"Call me as soon as you hear anything, Sherlock. I'll be around."

He texted Mycroft to call as soon as possible, then set to studying the front door. There, on the floor, were muddy footprints that he hadn't seen when he'd first entered. Boots, heavy ones. He rapidly pulled out his kit and was on his knees, getting a sample. As he tapped the dried mud into a small vial, he noticed his hands were shaking. He had never had cause to worry about his pathologist this much before, and now in the space of two days, his every thought was on her. The same sort of cold fear he had known while racing through London to save John from a fiery fate gripped him now.

Get a hold of yourself, he thought. Like John said yesterday, you have got to keep it together. The owner of the boots was between 5'10" and 6 feet tall.

He phoned Lestrade with his suspicions, and the police were soon swarming over the flat, then Mycroft called.

"Sherlock," he said heavily, "you'd better get over to my office."

Soon after, Sherlock entered Mycroft's inner sanctum, John at his side.

His brother looked up at him from several reports strewn across the desk. Anthea rushed in with another.

"Mycroft," he said. "What do you have?"

"We received a call," Mycroft said. "From a young man named Allistair Blunt, who was, until recently, a prison guard."

"At Sherrinford?" Sherlock asked.

"At Sherrinford."

Sherlock's jaw tightened. "Is this some more of Eurus' doing?"

"More like the fallout from it," Mycroft noted. "We think that he was to be part of another potential plan her hers, which was aborted in favor of the false bomb and phone call. He is the only former staff member from Sherrinford who is unaccounted for, and now it appears that he has gone rogue."

"Good God," said John. "What next?"

"Blunt contacted us about an hour ago, instructed us to have you here for his next call, which should be shortly."

"I feel like we're still in that place," John said. "Still playing the game. And Jesus, Mycroft, you have got to get rid of these grey walls."

They waited in uncomfortable silence, which was relieved when the phone rang a few minutes later. Mycroft reached out to answer.

"Hello? This is Mycroft Holmes."

"Is Sherlock Holmes there?" said a gravelly voice.

"I'm here." Sherlock replied.

"Good. I'm calling to inform you that I have Doctor Hooper in my possession."

Sherlock glanced from John, who looked sick, to Mycroft, who was staring at the speaker on his desk with distaste. The feeling of dread that had come over him earlier now settled in his chest. He turned to the speaker. "I want to talk to her," he said.

"I'm afraid that won't be possible, Mr. Holmes."

"What have you done?" Sherlock growled dangerously.

"Oh, she's alive. For now. Unfortunately, her time will be running out in about six hours. That's what you've got, Mr. Holmes. You'll be hearing from her soon, though. Then you'll have to find her."

Mycroft watched his brother. Sherlock's visage was murderous. "If anything happens to her," he intoned, his voice reaching sepulchral depths, "I will come after you. I will not stop, I will not rest, until I have caught up with you, and at the risk of sounding like a Liam Neeson film, I will kill you."

"Six hours. Keep your mobile phone on." Click.

"He's gone," Mycroft said. "We started a trace but it's likely a disposable mobile phone."

Sherlock looked up at John, who stood up.

"Soldiers."


	3. Chapter 3

**Thanks to all of you who favorited or reviewed this story! I am so excited that you are liking it and hope to live up to all of your expectations!**

* * *

Molly woke abruptly. She opened her eyes. She was lying on her back in a very confined space. The only light was from a glowstick, a sickly green glow that bathed the inside of…of…oh my God, she thought.

"Oh, my God," she whispered. "Oh, my God."

She was in a coffin. Oh, my God, a coffin. How ironic. It was similar to the one she'd seen in the video. Something was lying on her chest. Molly carefully moved her arm and her fingers grasped the object, a phone. She knew there was only one person to call. Before dialing, she took the time to examine her surroundings further. It seemed like the typical wooden coffin, lined with white satin. She reached out and pushed on the lid with both hands—it wouldn't move. She pushed with all her might a second time, but it didn't budge. Her heart began to pound and her throat was dry. She forced down her panic, slowed her breathing. There was no sound outside. _I think I'm underground_ , she thought.

* * *

Sherlock's phone began to ring. He and John had just entered a cab for the ride to Bart's. He needed to analyze the mud from the bootprints, as it was his only lead so far. He quickly withdrew his phone from his pocket. The number was unknown.

"Sherlock Holmes," he said.

"Sherlock?"

"Molly!" he gasped. "Where are you?"

"I'm…" she began, "I…Sherlock, I don't know. I'm in a, it's…a coffin." She began to cry quietly. "It's a coffin, Sherlock."

Oh, God. Not now, not like this. And he found himself begging with her on the phone again, "Molly…Molly, please. Don't panic. I'm here. Listen to my voice. I'm here, Molly."

"Okay," she said.

"Molly, I'm going to find you. I need more data. Is the phone GPS-enabled? Can you hear any traffic noise?"

"No. It's an old flip-phone and there's been absolute silence. I've tried to open the lid but it won't move. Sherlock, I think I've been buried alive. I have no way of telling you where I am."

"Do you know how long you've been there?" he asked.

"No idea. I just woke up here a few minutes ago." She paused. "Sherlock," she went on, "I think this coffin is about a square meter in volume," she said calmly. "That's 1000 liters of air. 21% oxygen…"

"210 L of O2," Sherlock said. "One mole of any gas at STP has a volume of 22.4 L. Therefore, 210 L of O2 is 9.38 mole. The mass of 9.38 mole of Oxygen is 9.38 mole x 32 grams per mole, which equals about 300 grams." Sometimes he hated being a chemist.

"Yes," said Molly. "A person at rest needs 0.617 kilos of oxygen per day, so all of the oxygen will be gone in less than half a day. Of course, CO2 will build up as well, and it won't really matter anymore, Sherlock," she said. "I'll just fall asleep from the CO2."

"Molly, no…."

"It won't be so bad," she whispered. "Maybe I'll dream. Maybe I'll say hi to Mary."

"Now, look," he said, voice shaking. "I won't have that kind of talk from you, Molly Hooper. I want you to rest and stop talking. Use less oxygen that way. We will find you, but you have to stay calm for me, all right? And Molly…I am so sorry…about the pain I put you through yesterday. It was cruel."

"It wasn't your fault," she assured him. "Mycroft told me. "

"He did?"

"Yeah," she said tearfully. "I saw the video."

He drew a deep, shuddering breath. "I had hoped that wouldn't be seen by another living soul." He destroyed the coffin and today, he was fighting another. Symbolic, perhaps. "Molly," he said, "I'm on the way to the lab. I have some evidence which may help, but I won't know until the analysis is finished. I want you to call me if you…need to talk."

She relaxed. "I will. For now, I'll be quiet and unmoving. And Sherlock?"

"Yes?"

She hesitated. "I meant what I said. Yesterday, I mean. It is true."

"I know," he said. "Molly, I don't want to do this on the phone again. When I find you, we're going to have to have a talk."

"Thank you," she whispered.

* * *

Sherlock and John burst through the doors of the forensics lab and Sherlock made a beeline for a microscope. He quickly divested himself of his coat and set up the equipment necessary to analyze the mud samples. John had never seen him move so efficiently before, and when they informed the lab staff of the situation, Sherlock had no shortage of assistants.

"John, hand me that rack of test tubes, please."

In minutes, Sherlock had the samples separated into several portions. "Analyzing the levels of lead, iron, calcium, copper, nickel, cadmium, selenium and zinc in the mud will allow a fair degree of accuracy in finding a location in London. The British Geological Survey performed sampling all over the city."

"That's amazing."

"You sound like your old self, John. It actually should be easier than solving the kidnapping of the ambassador's children, remember that one?"

Only this time, it was personal. This time, he was feverishly working to find someone he cared about greatly. Someone he…well. Bloody hell. Yes. It was true, pure and simple. Oscar Wilde was wrong in this case. He had to admit that Molly was now in his every waking thought, and now he wanted nothing more than to wrap her in his arms and let her know that finally, finally, everything was going to be all right, to feel her warm body against his….

Sherlock shook his head to clear his thoughts and picked up another sample. He needed more time, this was taking too long.

He was examining the fifth sample when Lestrade entered. "Anything?" he asked tersely.

The DI tossed his scarf onto the lab bench and sat. "Nothing so far. We're checking out Blunt's grandmother's place, she lives in Camden. How about you?"

"Running a mass spectrometry analysis now, should be done with that soon and it should give me the components of the mud."

John rose. "You're busy, Sherlock, I'll call Mycroft. Maybe he can get us some CCTV footage of that area, match it up with Molly's street, looking for similar vehicles…a van, maybe."

Sherlock looked up from the microscope. "Thank you, John," he said.

A lab tech appeared at his elbow. "Mr. Holmes," he said, "Here's the mass spec report you wanted."

Sherlock eagerly took the printout, eyes scanning the data. "This is where it gets dicey," he murmured. "Putting all this data together into a coherent whole and extrapolating the result." He began looking through geological survey reports on the computer.

His phone chirped. Pulling it out, he read the text.

NOT MUCH BREATHING ROOM LEFT, MR. HOLMES.

EURUS IS SECURE. IT'S OVER, BLUNT.

OH, IT'S NEVER OVER, SHERLOCK. THIS IS JUST THE BEGINNING OF THE GAME.

* * *

John re-entered about twenty minutes later. "Mycroft reports that his people have found a dark blue van in the video from Molly's street which matches one seen near Blunt's gran's house in Camden. Running the number plate now, and Mycroft is going to have them search other feeds for the same van." He placed a cup of coffee at Sherlock's elbow. "How are things in here?"

Sherlock paused for a sip of the hot brew. _Black, two sugars, please. I'll be downstairs._ He suppressed that particular memory. "Working on it. I've narrowed it down to eight potential areas in London."

"Eight?"

"I know," replied Sherlock, chagrined. "Call Mycroft back. Tell him we need more on that van."

* * *

Molly lay still, eyes closed, trying to control her rate of breathing. It would be helpful if she could fall asleep, she'd breathe even less that way, but like that was going to happen. She wanted to speak to Sherlock, just to hear his warm baritone in her ear. It was comforting. Right now, she felt very alone. _Get a grip, Hooper_ , she told herself. _Sherlock's working very hard right now and you don't want to interfere. Let him put all of his prodigious mind power into finding you._

Molly stretched her calves, which were threatening to cramp. She was getting really thirsty; hungry, too. Her mouth was so dry. One good thing about not drinking…at least she didn't have to use the loo.

She decided to stop thinking about her current situation and meditate about her Detective instead. Ever since "that call" the day before, she had been trying to scrutinize every bit of it she could remember, and there were two features of interest. One—the second time Sherlock told her he loved her, it sounded, well, real. Not forced in any way. Two—after the experience, he lost control. Mycroft had mentioned that they experienced other tests which were every bit as psychologically brutal, but hers…hers was the one in which Sherlock truly was broken. _Thank you, Mycroft_ , she thought. _At least if I die in here, I'll know how Sherlock really feels about me._

* * *

They were just debating on which area was the most likely place Blunt had performed any digging when Lestrade leaned in through the half-open door of the lab. "Blue van belongs to Blunt. It's parked at his gran's. Let's go."

They snatched their coats, Sherlock stopping only long enough to grab the printouts, and followed him. The three of them reached Lestade's waiting car, piled inside, and then they were off in wail of siren.


	4. Chapter 4

**Well, everyone! Thank you all so much for reading! I am having so much fun writing this. Now is the time for Moftiss-type writing, pure emotional devastation. So, keep your arms and legs inside the story at all times, and if you make it through the thrill ride, you'll get some nice little fluffy sweetness at the very end. But I'm not done, so we'll see where this goes. Stay tuned for a future chapter or two. Sooo...here we go, hang on tight!**

* * *

They arrived at the police road block at one end of Blunt's Camden street, and the three of them joined Donovan, who was manning the barrier with seven armed constables.

"We've got the far end of the street blocked," she reported, "And we're watching the back garden as well."

Lestrade peered down the street at the van. "Has it been here the entire time?"

"Hasn't moved."

He glanced back at Sherlock and John, both of whom wore a look of barely-restrained energy, like runners in the starting blocks. "Give the signal. We're moving now."

She picked up a mike from her car. "All units, we're moving in, stay sharp."

The special-weapons squad approached the house. Sherlock turned to Lestrade. "We're going to the back. He won't try coming out the front door." He whirled and pounded down the side street, John close on his heels, then turned up a walkway leading behind the gardens. He stopped, waiting for activity. All was quiet. Sherlock leaned against the fence, breathing heavily. His heart was pounding, and not just from exertion. His worry for Molly was driving him to distraction now. With every minute, the amount of her usable oxygen diminished and the level of deadly carbon dioxide rose until finally she would lose consciousness, and then—no. He couldn't stand to even consider that.

John peered past Sherlock down the garden path then glanced at the Detective. It had been an eventful twenty-four hours; too eventful for most. The Doctor found he seemed to be thriving. Adrenaline coursed through his body, and he checked for his sidearm in his pocket. He had picked it up from his house this morning, after having a feeling that today would be a very busy one. However, he was concerned about Sherlock, who was being overwhelmed by emotions that he previously had been unequipped to deal with.

A figure appeared about fifty feet away, climbing over the garden wall. The police at the other end of the path also noticed and began to run toward them. Blunt landed, hard, then picked himself up and scuttled through a space between the buildings on the opposite side. Sherlock reached the narrow path and hurtled through, frantic to apprehend the fleeing guard. Blunt crossed the next street over, was nearly hit by a passing motorist, and continued onto a rugby field across the street. Sherlock stretched his legs into a full-out sprint, closing the gap, then launched himself, tackling Blunt and landing a good right hook before John landed on top of them both. They pinned their struggling captive to the ground, and Sherlock demanded, "Where is she? Where is Molly Hooper?"

He had Blunt by the collar, shaking him ferociously. "Tell me now!" he roared.

But Blunt only grinned madly, then suddenly clamped his jaws shut. Then he smiled and said, "You'll never know, Mr. Holmes."

The man convulsed in Sherlock's grip.

"Jesus," exclaimed John. "Drop him, Sherlock, and get back!" he commanded.

Sherlock let go and leapt away, rolling to his feet. "Cyanide," he said, as the man's body continued to seize and then went limp.

"Yes," John replied, breathless.

The first police arrived then, followed by more officers.

"Damn it," Sherlock swore. "We won't get any information from him."

John pulled him away. "Come on," he said. "No use staying here."

"No," Sherlock agreed. "But I do think I know where we need to go now." He withdrew his phone. "Mycroft just sent a text that the van was spotted by CCTV near Hampstead Heath, late last night."

"But the Heath's enormous."

Sherlock nodded. "It is, indeed." He turned, trying to spot Lestrade, who had just jogged onto the field. "Greg," he said. "Get your car, quickly."

"Where are we going?" the DI asked.

The Detective pulled out his sheaf of maps. "North end of the Heath, just inside, off of East Heath Road, in the woods. There's an area there that fulfills all of the criteria for the elements I tested in that mud. Gran's house nearby, and with the Heath being a bit wild—the deduction is that he buried the coffin there in the early morning hours yesterday, kidnapped Molly at the time the van was seen near her flat, brought her here and placed her inside, covered it over, then back to Gran's to hide. We have to move—now."

* * *

Once seated beside Greg, Sherlock took out his phone. He had to know. He pulled up the recent calls and dialed the flip-phone.

"Hello? Sherlock?"

Sherlock heaved a sigh of relief. She was still all right. "Molly, yes, it's me. I just wanted to…see how you were getting along."

"I'm…okay."

Hearing her soft voice, frightened yet strong, tore at him. "That's…good," he said. "Molly, we think we know where you are, probably somewhere on Hampstead Heath. I've narrowed down some possibilities, so we're on the way now."

"I'm glad to hear that, Sherlock, because the glow-stick is waning. It's getting really dark in here, and um…it's bad enough being trapped underground in a coffin, but being trapped underground in a coffin in the dark…I think, well, I don't know…I might panic or something."

He looked out the windscreen as Greg squealed around a corner, speeding up Malden Road toward the Heath. "Molly, you're going to be fine. Just…hang in there for me, all right?"

"Sherlock."

"What, Molly?"

She was tearful again. "I didn't want to say, but I'm, I'm getting sleepy. I think the CO2 is building up. I'm afraid, Sherlock."

"Molly, please. You are so strong, you always have been."

"You serious?"

"You've put up with me being an arsehole all this time, haven't you?"

That drew a faint laugh. "I love you, you clot."

He closed his eyes, worried he might start to cry. "That's my girl," he said.

Greg downshifted and accelerated up Fleet Road.

"Greg," said John, "D'you have some people on the way with shovels, or something?"

"Already on it," Lestrade replied. There's a team with digging equipment right behind us."

Molly had become quiet on the other end of the connection. "Molly?" he asked. "Stay with me."

"I'm here," she said weakly, "but the light isn't. It's just gone out. I'm in the dark. Oh, God."

"We're coming, Molly. Hang on, don't let go."

"I can't see."

Sherlock couldn't stand much more of this. "Close your eyes. I'm here, Molly. I won't leave you."

"Never leave me."

"I won't," he replied, a lump in his throat. "Greg, stop here!"

The car careened to a stop where a path led into the woods. John was the first out, followed by Sherlock, still holding the phone to his ear, and Greg.

"He wouldn't have gone far off the path," Sherlock declared. "Spread out, and look for any fresh diggings."

"Sherlock?"

"Yes, Molly?"

"Can't stay awake…I'm so…tired…Sherlock…"

Silence.

"MOLLY!"

There was no answer.

At his stricken look, John squeezed his arm and pulled out a torch, swinging its beam back and forth on the ground under the dark trees. The three of them searched without success for a few minutes, then more police arrived to assist.

"We need to cover this whole area," Greg shouted. "Fast as you can, expand the search radius from here!"

They all spread out, studying the ground in the waning light.

John moved further into the woods after noting broken branches off the path, eyes scanning the area rapidly. He struggled through some brambles, and then he saw it—freshly-turned earth, an area about six feet long and three feet wide.

"SHERLOCK! Here! It's over here!"

Sherlock erupted through the trees in his headlong rush, falling to his knees at the edge of the dirt. He dug frantically with his hands, tears burning his eyes, clouding his vision. John joined him, and then there were PC's with shovels. Sherlock seized one from the nearest constable and plunged it into the soil. After a couple of tense minutes of sweaty digging, someone's shovel struck wood with a loud THUNK. There was a surprised pause, and then they all set to with renewed vigor.

Moments later, they had exposed the lid of the coffin. He and John loosened the lid and Sherlock flung it furiously away, then jumped into the shallow grave, gathering the unconscious Molly into his arms.

"Molly! Molly, breathe! Please don't do this!" he pleaded, not caring that the Metropolitan Police witnessed him so broken. "Please."

"Get her out," ordered John.

Sherlock passed her limp form up to where the Doctor knelt. "She's got a pulse," he declared. "We just need to ventilate the CO2 out." He began mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, and was relieved by two paramedics, who had dashed into the woods with their equipment. Sherlock stepped back, not wanting to watch, but unable to tear his eyes away, his heart thudding rapidly, fear and terror gripping his insides. His was vaguely aware of John moving over to stand next to him. Minutes rolled by. Suddenly, Molly took a gasping breath and her eyes fluttered open.

Sherlock realized he hadn't been breathing, either, and took a deep breath of his own before rushing to where she lay on the ground. "Molly," he said urgently.

A hint of a smile touched the corners of her mouth. "Sherlock. I knew it. I knew you'd come."

And the Great Detective, who had for nearly all his life forsworn his emotions, who had changed so much over the past few years, pulled her gently into his arms, bowed his dark curls, touched his forehead to hers, and wept.


	5. Chapter 5

**Okay, Sherlock fans! Enough angst, darkness, and unbearable tension! It's time for some fun and fluff! You all deserve it, and so do Sherlock and Molly. Keep reviewing!**

* * *

A&E waiting rooms were the same all over, Sherlock decided, as he returned to where he and John were sitting, a cup in each hand. He had just purchased coffee from a vending machine, for God's sake. At least it was hot. He wended his way through the plastic seats, past parents with tired, snot-nosed children; elderly patients waiting to be seen; the teen who'd broken his wrist roller-blading; pain med–addicts looking for a refill; and the no-longer-intoxicated pub-crawler who had punched a wall and broke his hand. Six-month old magazines littered the room.

He sat, handing one cup of steaming liquid to John, who was perusing a celebrity gossip rag.

"Ew," John muttered. "Tastes like motor oil, doesn't it?"

"A bit, " Sherlock admitted, examining the dark, oily brew. "At least it's caffeinated."

"True, and thank you very much, I certainly need it."

Sherlock took another sip and blew out a long, slow breath. It seemed he might finally be able to relax. He glanced at the magazine's headline—MEET THE INTERNET'S NEWEST BOYFRIEND!—and shook his head ruefully.

He spotted Greg Lestrade's silver hair as the DI entered, crossed the room, and sat down opposite them. "Paperwork's done," he said, stretching. He cocked his head in the direction of the patient area. "How are things?"

"They're still checking her out," John said from behind his magazine, "and holding her for observation while they administer IV fluids."

Greg nodded at Sherlock and John. "And how are you both? Considering that John was down a well getting hypothermia yesterday and you've had to deal with a homicidal sister, not to mention everything that happened…today."

Sherlock's mouth quirked upward. "I'm fine, Greg. Really. It's just been a bit of an emotional wringer, as Mrs. Hudson would put it."

The three of them looked up expectantly at the doctor's approach. "Well, gentlemen," he said. "It seems Doctor Hooper was very lucky to have such good friends as you. She's suffered no permanent damage from her enforced confinement underground. I'd like to keep her here tonight for observation, then if she's doing well in the morning, we'll discharge her tomorrow."

"That's great, Doctor," said John. "Thanks."

Sherlock stood. "May we see her?"

"Certainly. She's doing fine."

* * *

John tentatively looked around the corner into Molly's room to find her sitting up on a gurney, dining on a sandwich one of the nurses had brought in for her. Her face brightened. "John! Come in!" He entered, grinning happily, followed by Greg, who gave her an encouraging smile, and then the tall figure of Sherlock.

"Hello, Sherlock," she said.

"Hullo, Molly," he said quietly.

"Listen," said John, always the perceptive one, "why don't Greg and I let you two…talk. Molly, you look great. Sherlock, we'll be in the waiting room."

They exited and left Sherlock standing alone, facing Molly. He moved closer and seated himself next to her. She reached out with her left hand and he took it, holding it like fine china, and her eyes wandered over the multiple small injuries on his knuckles.

"How are you?" he asked. "I was worried."

"I'm okay. Before you or I say anything else, Sherlock," she said, "I wish to say thank you—for saving my life—twice in as many days. Well, I know I wasn't really…dying…yesterday, but I know what you thought, and then I really was dying today—"

"Molly—"

"What I really wanted to say was that I'm sorry."

He sat up straight, nose wrinkling. "What for?"

"You were in a bad place yesterday, Sherlock, and I forced you to say things that maybe you…didn't want to say."

He pressed his lips together, thinking hard about his next words. Taking a deep breath, he said, "Molly, it's not that I didn't want to say them…never that."

Molly waited, a bit amazed, as this very different Sherlock Holmes, obviously nervous and out of his element, struggled to find the right words. She determined that she wouldn't interrupt him. "I've never been skillful at expressing how I truly feel. And more importantly, I didn't even comprehend what I was feeling in the first place."

"And so," he continued, steeling himself, "at first I merely wanted to say it 'like I meant it', because I was so convinced that we would lose you otherwise. And I said it again, because I wanted to get through to you, but when I said it the second time, it was as if…as if…something just snapped inside, and I knew, and then today, when I almost lost you again…. What I'm trying to say, Molly Hooper, is that I love you." He was trembling, and she reached out a warm hand to touch his cheek. Suddenly, she took the collar of his coat in a firm grip, pulling him closer, and his lips touched hers. The kiss was warm and lingering, and he honestly wondered if his legs would continue to support him, when she began to giggle. He grinned, and then they were both laughing.

"That. Was. Amazing."

"What the hell…"

"…were we waiting for?"

* * *

A few minutes later, he strolled back into the waiting room. John Watson may have noticed a difference in his manner, but if he did, he didn't mention it. A couple of nurses had arrived to move Molly upstairs for the night, and she had finally shooed Sherlock out, saying that he was clearly exhausted (he was), with the admonition that he get a good night's rest in his own bed, although frankly, he wasn't sure whether his own bed still existed, somewhere in the ruin that was 221B. He was reluctant to leave, but the reality of his own emotional/mental/physical fatigue was wearing on him, despite the fact that he now was experiencing a sensation akin to a hit from a powerful stimulant. He had promised to return the next morning to escort Molly home, and after another leg-numbing kiss, he left.

"So," said John as he and Sherlock climbed out of their cab outside 221 Baker Street, "It's finally over…I hope."

Sherlock surveyed the lack of debris on the pavement below his flat. "It seems that Mycroft's people have been busy," he said, opening the door.

They hadn't made it to the stairs before Mrs. Hudson flew into their arms. "Oh, my boys!" she exclaimed, and no one could deny shedding a few tears during that reunion, though Sherlock would attempt to. They trooped upstairs into the blast zone.

"Ohhh-kay," said John. "Well, this will take a bit of work." He picked up the charred remains of Sherlock's violin and lay it respectfully on what was left of the sofa.

As Sherlock studied the mess, John wandered off into the kitchen, his feet crunching on broken shards of laboratory glassware. Sherlock stood over the remains of his desk. His laptop was melted into a vaguely-rectangular lump and he pushed it aside with his foot.

"Sherlock," John called from the rear of the flat. He joined his friend at the door to his bedroom. Or just…room. There was nothing left of the mattress except springs. "Looks like it smouldered and completely burned up," John surmised. "Come on. You're not sleeping here. You can join Rosie and I tonight."

They gathered up a few of Sherlock's clothes which survived the blast by being downstairs in Mrs. Hudson's washing machine, then set off for John's house.

As the cab moved away, he turned to John. "John," he ventured, "I need to ask for some advice."

The Doctor's eyebrows rose to unprecedented heights. "Advice?" he repeated. "Am I to assume this may have something to do with a certain lovely pathologist of our acquaintance?" He smirked and then laughed out loud. "Your face!" he exclaimed.

"Yesss," hissed Sherlock. "All right, John, all right."

"I knew it!" John said gleefully. "And Mary knew it! She always said it was only a matter of time before you two…well." He looked up. "Hear that, Sweetheart? It's happened! Our baby's in love!"

John continued to chortle, wiping tears from his eyes. "Greg Lestrade even mentioned to me that Anderson…Anderson, mind you…had this crazy idea that you bungee-jumped off Bart's, crashed through the one of the pathology department windows, and you and Molly had a smokin' hot snog! Even he knew it!"

Sherlock leaned back and crossed his arms, eyes narrowing.

John stifled his laughter and regarded his friend. "I'm sorry, Sherlock," he said. "I really am. It's been so obvious to the rest of us, just not to you."

"Not until now," Sherlock admitted.

"How does it feel?" asked John.

He grinned. "It feels good."

"I'm going to make another deduction, yeah?"

"You're doing well so far," Sherlock sighed.

John's grin grew wider. "You snogged her in A&E, didn't you?" He winked at the Detective. Suddenly they were both laughing like kids, and Sherlock realized that Redbeard was back again, alive and well, in his best friend, John Watson.

* * *

Sherlock stretched out on John's sofa, wincing a bit as his body protested, as if it were saying, "Look, you idiot, in the last few weeks, you've been whacked out on drugs, punched and kicked by your best friend, throttled by a diminutive serial killer, blown out of a building, throttled again—this time by your psychopathic sister, had a fight with a defenseless coffin, oh, and don't forget you almost blew my head off. And today—you played rugby with a bad guy's head and dug the love of your life out of the ground! Be careful!"

He and John had arrived home earlier to find Rosie awake and hungry. Mary's friend Stella offered to stay a bit longer, but the Doctor urged her to go, that he and Sherlock would manage. After John heated some formula, they spent a pleasant evening caring for his daughter, and Sherlock found that holding a baby wasn't actually a bad thing, especially when said baby fell asleep on his shoulder.

Once John had gotten over his delight at Sherlock's new relationship, he became more serious and offered several useful suggestions about how Sherlock should proceed with Molly. The two friends sat up late, Rosie now sleeping peacefully in her crib, and John poured out a couple of fingers of whiskey for each of them. They sipped at their drinks as Sherlock posed questions for John, who tried to push Sherlock in the right direction.

"Sherlock," he had said, "You remember when I told you that a relationship, a real relationship, would complete you as a human being?"

Sherlock nodded, "Hmm."

"Well, I don't know why the bloody hell I didn't tell you to go for Molly Hooper then. But I thought maybe you and Irene…."

"It really was just an occasional text, John. She checks on me every once in a while, mainly because she just likes to flirt."

"Flirt?" John laughed. "If I recall, she kept asking to 'have dinner'."

"True," he said. "John, Irene is beautiful, and intellectually stimulating, but only that. She is fascinated by me, and attracted to me, but she doesn't love me, not like Molly."

A warm smile spread across John's face. "Well," he said. "Well, well, well."

"I know," replied Sherlock. "I may be clever, but it took me some time to work that out."

And Sherlock Holmes, looking forward to the morning, slipped into a sleep full of dreams of Molly Hooper.


	6. Chapter 6

**This is it, everyone! The last chapter! Thank you all so much for the kudos and encouragement, it was much appreciated. Now, time for an ANNOUNCEMENT-The following chapter is in two versions. The PG-13 version is here on Fanfiction. It you want to read the explicit version, visit me on the other major fanfic site, A O 3, to find it. Just do an author search, I have the same name there.**

* * *

Despite having been up late talking with John, Sherlock slept well and rose early, showering and shaving before John or even Rosie awakened. He dressed in his usual dress shirt and jacket, nicked a scone from a bag in John's kitchen, threw on his scarf and coat, and was off for Bart's.

He strode purposefully through the lobby, took the lift to Molly's floor and approached her room with no small degree of trepidation. Biting his lip, he leaned through the door. She was asleep. Sherlock silently stole into the room and took a seat, filling his eyes with the sight of her. Molly looked peaceful…and beautiful. He sat, trying to process the myriad of thoughts and emotions swirling in his head. Closing his eyes, he walked through the entry of his mind palace. The room that was labeled "Molly Hooper" was suddenly brighter than he had remembered. He spent the next several minutes filing memories, including "the call", which he no longer looked upon with such bitterness, considering that it was the catalyst for all of this. He must really remember to send Eurus a fruit basket or something. When filing was complete, he reviewed several "Molly memories" from their first meeting all the way through his recent birthday cake outing. Deep in his mind palace, he realized that in nearly every one of these recollections, he was happy. That boded well. He also realized that he was attracted to Molly in every possible way—emotionally, intellectually—and physically. Just thinking of that caused his pulse to race. Yes, yes, it was all chemical, and in the past he would have just rationalized it as nothing more than science, but now, combined with the deep emotional attachment (love, Sherlock) he had discovered, he found he definitely wanted to experience everything his relationship with Molly would offer, including exploring just how many ways he could satisfy her. After all, she (and himself, if he was honest) had been waiting for a very long time. He decided to linger on those thoughts for a while longer….

Molly's eyes fluttered open, and they landed on her Detective. He was seated a few feet away, eyes closed, likely in his mind palace, a faint smile on his features, which made him look years younger. She took this fortuitous moment to study him. Even though she had always loved to look at Sherlock Holmes, his declaration yesterday made everything different. Now he was hers. Who knew that the threat of death and destruction was all that was needed to rattle him and bring this all out in the open? She would've gotten herself in trouble a long time ago if she'd known! Today, he was a new man, and yet the same inscrutable, brilliant genius she'd fallen for. His dark curls framed his face, and she itched to run her hands through them, to trace his cheekbones with her fingers, to feel his blue-green eyes on her. He was wearing her favorite purple shirt, stretched tightly across his chest (which seemed more muscular—was he working out?). Her eyes wandered downward, to the black trousers he wore, which clung to him in an ever-so-delightful way.

As much as she would have liked to stare at him all day, she really wanted to get out of this hospital and somewhere they could be alone, to talk, to perhaps snuggle, and, she dared to think, to make love. She hadn't any idea how experienced he was, but either way, she looked forward to advancing their relationship. Ordinarily, she wouldn't be so anxious to do so, but after all, how long had they known each other? The way she figured it, she'd waited long enough.

"Sherlock."

His eyes snapped open, and he grinned as he looked at her. "Good morning, Molly Hooper," he drawled.

"It's nice to see you here," she said.

"No place I'd rather be," he returned. "Wait a minute. Actually, there are many places I'd rather be, but only if you're with me." Thanks for the coaching, John Watson.

"That's very sweet of you to say, Sherlock Holmes." Was he blushing?

"How are you feeling?"

"Honestly? Better than I'd thought. You?"

He nodded slowly, "Not bad, considering. I did a bit of a survey last night, and everything seems to be improving."

They were interrupted by the physician on duty, who performed an examination and deemed Molly ready for discharge. She sent Sherlock on a mission to the pathology department to retrieve extra clothing stashed in her locker. Upon his return, she changed quickly into the fresh clothes; he offered her his arm and within minutes, they were strolling out into the morning sunlight together.

They walked and talked, heads together, past St. Paul's, down to the river, taking their time across the Millennium Bridge. They stopped in the middle to lean on the railing. The breeze fluttered Sherlock's hair; hers as well, since she'd left it down today. A tourist boat floated by beneath them.

"Sherlock? You don't have to answer this question because I know it may be difficult, but I want to know—what drove you to destroy the coffin?"

He looked down, studying his hands, the damage done to them by his explosion. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet. "I always told myself that I could best do my job and live my life by avoiding emotions. I suppressed being a feeling, caring human because it was easier than remembering what Eurus had done to me. But when I said those words to you, those simple, little words, they sounded—right. And there it was, the easiest deduction of all, the pure and simple truth—clearly, not only was I capable of loving, I loved you. Why did I destroy the coffin? It was for a lot of reasons. First I was angry that Eurus even thought to threaten you, and second, I was so angry at myself for wasting so much time. Third, I hated myself for hurting you, because that is the very last thing I want to do."

Her eyes were full as he continued. "You said that it was always true, that you always loved me. Well, the truth is, I think—that I, no matter how hard I tried to deny it, have loved you for a long time."

"How long?" she asked, a smile playing about her lips.

Sherlock looked up in surprise. "How long?" he repeated.

"Since…your exam in the ambulance?" she suggested.

"Absolutely not," he said, eyes twinkling.

"Since…I slapped you when you were high?"

"Hmmm…no."

"How about…when I was dancing with Tom at the wedding?"

"Nope. But I was jealous."

"I should've gone after you," she admitted.

"It would have saved time," he chided her.

She rested her chin on her hands. "So, you loved me before that. Okay, how about since the Fall?"

"Uh-uh," he said. "Though the time I spent with you then helped."

Her brow furrowed in concentration. "This is getting difficult. I know—the Christmas party at 221B, when I brought you a present, and you said those horrible things, and I called you on it. And you apologised, and then you kissed me."

"Still not it."

"Damn. I don't think I washed that cheek for at least a month or so."

This drew a laugh from Sherlock. "Do you really want to know?" he asked.

"Well," Molly nodded, "yes—of course."

He turned and looked directly into her soft brown eyes. "All right. Molly, I've loved you since the very beginning, since I met you. After all, you were a pretty pathologist who allowed me access to the lab. It's not every consulting detective who gets to beat a corpse with a riding crop. I couldn't help but be intrigued by you. And then one day, they day I met John, you asked me out, for coffee, as I recall. I turned you down. God, that was stupid, but I was such a dick then, wasn't I? So, being intrigued at that time of my life? That was as close as I got to love then, but make no mistake, it was love. Molly, I know I hurt you so many times. I was an utter arse to you. How did you manage to put up with me?"

"Because I loved you, you great idiot," she said.

He hung his head sheepishly. "Will you please forgive me for the time I've wasted?"

She looked at him, hard, then nodding, she said, "Yes, but do me one favour, Sherlock Holmes."

"And that is?" he asked.

"Don't waste any more."

He had no need for words, but ruffled his hair, took her face in his hands, and lowered his lips to hers. They were warm and inviting, and as her arms reached up to encircle his neck, her mouth opened to his tongue and her body leaned into his. Sherlock's arms moved downward, pulling her close to him. His mind raced, processing all of these new sensations—the softness of her lips, the eagerness of her response to him, the glorious feeling of her body pressed against his. How long they stood there, kissing in the middle of London, as the great city rolled by past them, neither of them could ever be sure.

Sherlock finally pulled away, breathing fast. "Come on," he said hoarsely, his arm around her tightly. "Let's go home."

* * *

They arrived at Molly's—she had a bit of trouble fishing out her key since her fingers were entwined with his. It seemed that he couldn't get enough of even the slightest touch, and he hadn't released her hand since they entered the cab for the ride to her flat. She managed to get the door open, and they tumbled inside together.

Taking his hand, she tugged him toward her bedroom. "Molly," he said tentatively, "You're _sure_ this is what you want?"

She gave him a gentle smile, the one that melted his heart, and brushing a stray lock from his brow, said, "Sherlock Holmes, you're very sweet to ask, but I've never been more certain about anything in my life." She pulled him into her room and after helping him divest himself of his coat and everything else under it, showed him just how certain she was.

* * *

Molly woke early the next morning, thoroughly relaxed and sated, with the utterly-pleasurable sensation of Sherlock's lean, warm body pressed up against her back, one arm wrapped around her, keeping her tucked snugly against his chest. She had never felt so…protected, so…loved. She lay quietly, enjoying listening to and feeling him breathe in his sleep. Tom had never made her feel this way. And for all his insistence that there had been a decided lack of physical intimacy in his life, Sherlock had been a considerate and expert lover, thoroughly devastating in his intensity and his abilities.

She twisted around until she was facing him, and he stirred. "Good morning," he rumbled.

"Good morning, Sherlock," she said, smiling impishly. "How are you?"

Considering his actions the night before, he looked so innocent lying there beside her, as he drew her closer to him. "I am…amazing. Never better."

"Me, too." She looked into his stunning eyes and said, "So, Sherlock…where do we go from here?"

He gazed at her knowingly. "I rather think I'd like to always wake up like this, with you. But how about we be like real people and actually go out on a date?"

"You? And me? On a date?"

"Yes, like…dinner, a night at the theatre, or…cake?"

"That doesn't sound like you."

"True," he agreed, "but I rather think I'm going to enjoy finding out who I really am. I've been…rebooted, Molly. It's time for a fresh start."

"I like that, but don't go changing too much, Sherlock. I fell in love with an insensitive arse who solves crimes, remember?"

"I'll try to remember that," he grinned. "Seriously, Molly—John recently pointed out to me that the one thing I was lacking that would make me a complete human being was having a romantic relationship, being in love. Well, he's right. Molly, you complete me. And I think—you make me the man I ought to be. Would you consider continuing to do that for me?"

"I'd like that, Sherlock, very much."

A mischievous smile stole across his face. "Then let's get started."


End file.
